


And then there were two

by dorcas_gustine



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorcas_gustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all he knows, he and Gene may be the last people on Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And then there were two

**Author's Note:**

> Because Andy ~~threatened me~~ wondered why I hadn't written anything for [zomromcomlomcom](http://community.livejournal.com/zomromcomlomcom/) yet.
> 
> Also, in answer to a prompt by space_oddity_75. Er, I bet this wasn't what you had in mind.
> 
> It's actually quite tame for a zombie!fic. Especially for a zombie!fic written by me.
> 
> Title from '_28 days later_'.

"Bollocks."

It's said low, almost muttered, but Sam is able to hear it all the same.

Sam frowns and his head snaps to check on Gene. His eyes travel all over his figure, looking for scratches and bites he might have missed earlier. While Gene's once pale yellow shirt is stained with blood and other things Sam doesn't really want to think about, there are no visible marks on Gene.

"What is it?" he asks after a moment.

Gene has a cigarette between his lips and is staring at the packet in his hand with forlorn eyes. "Last one," he mutters, before he crumples it up and tosses it over his shoulder.

It lands somewhere in the vicinity of Ray's desk, bouncing off the pile of reports that were due about three weeks ago. Sam mentally adds 'lazy sod' to the list of reasons why he doesn't like DS Ray Carling. He's constantly updating it; too bad Excel is still decades away, he could keep it organized otherwise.

'Lazy sod' is an entry that's surely come up before this particular moment, and he could keep track of repetitions with a computer, as well as alphabetize it.

Come to think of it, Ray is such a lazy sod that it bears repeating anyway.

There's cutlery they've nicked from the kitchen scattered in front of them. They ran out of bullets approximately three hours ago, Gene's regular John Wayne routine a decisive factor. He shoots just like an American cowboy, spraying bullets all over the place and choosing frequency over accuracy.

Using blades and carving forks means getting too close for comfort with… _those things_ out there, and that's never a good idea, but they have the advantage of being silent. The sound of gunshots reveals their position and attracts their attention, despite the fact that they shouldn't be able to think. Maybe they still have instincts, though. Do rotting brains have the capacity for instincts? They seem to be intact enough for these creatures to move around.

There's even a frying pan, right next to one of Gene's white loafers – there's a brownish-green smear on the leather Sam is resolutely _not_ thinking about.

Sam frowns. "A frying pan?" he asks. "What do you plan on doing with it?"

Gene looks down at the pan as if he were seeing it for the first time. He picks it up, swirling it in his hand as if testing the weight. "It's good for smashing heads in," he replies with a shrug. "And it'll come in handy if we want to have a fry-up."

Sam can _feel_ his stomach rebelling at the mere thought. "When they say that you can eat anything if it's fried, it's not really true, you know," he tells him.

The far away sound of moaning has become background noise for them now, but if Sam stops and concentrates on it, it still makes his skin crawl, like it did this morning. Like it did two days ago, when he first heard it.

They holed up in the Station, he and Gene and the others, because they have munitions this way – or at least they _had_ – and the cells offer an impenetrable last resort in terms of barricading yourself.

The Station is huge, though, almost indefensible in its entirety, and they found out that at a high price.

There's only him and the Guv now, with cutlery spread all over the floor and Gene's last cigarette.

Sam doesn't know what the conditions are out there. He doesn't know how much this… _plague_ has spread. He doesn't know if it's just Manchester, the UK or the whole world that they've infected.

He refuses to call them with the word his brain is supplying, because it would make it real, and right now Sam desperately needs this to be a fantasy, a nightmare induced by his comatose condition.

For all he knows, he and Gene may be the last people on Earth.

Gene offers him the cigarette in silence and Sam takes it obligingly.

He takes a drag. "Last one, huh?" he says, and Gene nods absently. "Want to go out and buy some?"

Gene snorts and shakes his head. His hand closes around the handle. "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
